


What We Do In Knightsbridge Is Secret

by 23littlebirds



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dominatrix, F/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:52:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/23littlebirds/pseuds/23littlebirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A corpse, Parkinson, and a smoked chicken sandwich. It would have been a perfect day, if it weren't for that other thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Do In Knightsbridge Is Secret

No doubt; even without his nose blown off, Phineas Burge would have made one buggering ugly corpse. It’s a snap judgement, yeah, but I think it’s fair. Burge was a right unappealing blighter when he was up, clothed, and walking. A pot-bellied blowhard with pig eyes and fat, greasy lips. Now, he’s sprawled naked across these marble steps, and I can’t decide where to avoid looking first: At the singed-out hole in the centre of Burge’s face, or his limp, middle-aged man-bits, hairless— _hairless_ —and sagging slap-dash over the top of one thigh.

“All clear upstairs, sir.” Simmons blocks out the lamplight, half-gagging as she kneels beside me. “Urgh… Merlin. That’s me off my bacon.” Her voice is low, muffled by the forearm covering her face. I glance at her, flash my ‘ _Rookie_ ' half smile, then go back to the body. It's sort of sick, but after twelve years on the job and all the things I've smelled, the charred odour rising from the ruffled skin of Burge's wound only reminds me of the lovely smoked chicken sandwich I left on my desk back at the Ministry. My stomach rumbles, and I thumb back one drooping eyelid, pointing my wandlight into the filmy, blown pupil beneath. 

“He’s been dead a while.” I try to lift his head. “Rigor’s just setting in. And, look. His body’s dry, but the steps are slick from the rain. He wasn’t killed here.” I sit back on my haunches, have a look at the manicured garden, then turn back to the town house. “Strange place for a dump, though. How does the resident look? You spoken to her?”

Simmons shakes her head. “No, sir. She wouldn’t talk with me. I believe you should come see for yourself, sir.” Her voice quivers with mirth. Simmons has a well-honed appreciation for the ridiculous. It makes the long nights much easier to bear. “Caudlepot is attempting to question her, but…”

“Attempting?” I rise and follow her up the steps to the back door. We’re in a quiet, well-to-do, wizarding neighbourhood. The population here is mostly elderly and inbred, the sort whose days are spent clutching at mounds of dusty, old gold and occasionally wiping a soft cloth over the family crest. Poor thing that lives here is probably frightened to death and blethering. Simmons stands by the back door with her hands clasped in front of her stomach, trying not to smile, and I ask, “So, what’ve we here, then?” I step around her, grasp the brass handle and push. “A chatty, old bird who’d rather yammer on about her… cat?”

The door swings open, and my feet stutter on the threshold. Everything, the entire room, is black satin or iron. A couple of candles flanking the doorway to the next room flick yellow-orange over the fabric walls. A rusting bench with a severely pleated cushion sits to the side, while the corner is taken up by a large urn filled with thin rods. Cold seeps up the legs of my trousers, rising off the iron tiled floor.

And, it’s just a hunch, but now I’m thinking there is no cat.

“Hell of a mud room, eh?” Simmons sidles around and gleefully snaps back the heavy satin curtain hanging in the doorway. “Wait until you see upstairs.”

I follow her through a kitchen that makes Snape’s dungeon feel as cheerful as Mum’s new breakfast room, then into another dim hallway. We pass beside the staircase and into the entry way, through more expensive wallpaper and upholstered antiques, and I realise I’m forcing my fists to stay balled at my sides to keep from reaching out and raking my fingers over the scrolling patterns on the walls. The whole place feels staged and vaguely sinister, and, still, I want to run my hands all over it. I want to dig my nails into the perfect gloss of the wood. I want to push my face into the inch thick nap of the velvet drapes. I stop at the newel post and glance up the stairs. Simmons, who has practically skipped through the entire first floor, suddenly stops outside the French doors leading to the lounge and puts on her Auror face.

“This one will take a firm hand, sir,” she whispers, then stands to the side to let me through first.

The lounge is, of course, dark. Dark walls, dark floorboards. Caudlepot’s black robes camouflage him in the corner where he stands, pad and quill a splash of bright white in his dangling hand.

He’s straight out of training, but this won’t do at all. _We’re_ the authority in this room, not the Empress of Shadow seated at the other end.

“Sir,” Simmons voice pushes me through the door, and I turn to look at our home owner. “This is Madame Ava deCuir.”

She sits like royalty in the plush cushions of her armchair. The deep violet centre of a red velvet sun.

“ _You._ ” The word flies out of my mouth, spat like poison. _Madame Ava_ crosses her legs and stares into my eyes. She smiles that same wicked smile I knew twenty years ago, and I grip my wand and silently dare her to say one. Fucking. Word.

Caudlepot clears his throat. “She.. She refuses to speak, sir. I’ve performed all the proper procedures. We were just waiting for you.”

I shake my head, still holding _the Madame’s_ gaze. I gesture over my shoulder and Simmons steps up beside me. “Secure her. She’s coming with us. Caudlepot, call a team out here. I want every wall, every floorboard, ever stitch and stick checked and re-checked.” I turn to Caudlepot and hold out my hand. “Her wand, please.”

I take her wand as Simmons binds her wrists. All the while, she hums faintly, a tune I can’t quite catch. Simmons guides her forward, and as she passes, she catches my eye and whisper-sings, “He always catches everything…”

And then she smiles. She winks.

“And, Simmons…, “ I say.

“Yes, sir?”

“Her real name - Parkinson. Pansy Parkinson.”

……

I’m confounded as to how anyone can strut down a corridor with their wrists bound behind their back, but Parkinson somehow manages. If I wanted to analyse it, I could say it must have something to do with the ratio of hip to breast sway, with the lack of tension in the shoulders, like she doesn’t have to have hands to protect herself. Like she knows, if she wanted, she could take you down with just her toes, her mouth. She clops down the hallway, dismantling every straight bloke in her path. Gilpen drops his paperwork, Newberry turns mid-stride, stumbling backwards in the opposite direction, and Lint has reached a dead stop, mouth gaping. So much for fostering a healthy respect for the uniform.

Standard procedure is to jangle the nerves with a long, empty pause. Simmons takes Parkinson’s cloak, makes sure she’s settled in the interrogation room then leaves to make tea, while I take my place behind the observation wall. Parkinson waits, sitting back in the chair - an old, rickety number we always offer the suspects - her legs crossed and hands folded, stock still but for the slow rotation of one dangling foot. This chair, most folks are all over the place, but not Parkinson. Not the first wobble or adjustment since she first sat, and, though it’s entirely inappropriate, I’m thinking she must have one commanding set of arse-cheeks to pin the old pile of sticks so completely to the floor.

I take this time alone to get a feel for the opponent, to re-acquaint myself with _the Madame_. I say re-acquaint, but this is a completely different beast than the one I avoided in the halls of Hogwarts. I remember a spitting, hissing thing, a mean little kitten skidding around on exposed claws. This woman is calm. She’s sleek, surefooted as a panther, and I wonder where she’s been, who she’s been with, and who she hasn’t seen in a while.

A half hour later, Simmons struggles through the door with the tea. She goes first because she speaks gently and has a nice face. She comes off as unassailably pure, like your school mate’s pretty mum, and people love to tell her things because they either want to please her, or they can’t pass a chance to try and rattle her cage. She holds one cup to her chest, the other she sets on the table, just within Parkinson’s reach. It’s a decent move, and it works on good days, but Parkinson’s not taken in. She watches Simmons settle at the table the way you’d watch a goldfish in a bowl - drawn by the movement, but outside its sway. I can already feel my brows bunching together. And then Parkinson looks my way, and I know this is not going to play how any of us would like.

“Is Weasley watching from behind that wall?” She can’t see through, but Parkinson’s eyes still seem to land on mine.

Simmons wraps both hands around her cup. “ _Auror_ Weasley? Yeah, I expect he might be.”

“I haven’t seen him since I was a girl.” Blue eyes. Long, dark hair. Purple silk robes adorned with a pin, the single jewel glittering just over the spot her heart would be. “What’s it like, working with him?”

“It’s good. I’ve been on his team since I qualified. He’s very good at his job. Thorough.” Simmons blows over her cup, then says, “Speaking of jobs, you’d quite the set-up back there. A chamber for every flavour.”

“Almost. Interested?”

Simmons shakes her head, smiles. “No.”

“Mm. Shame.” I remember Parkinson’s voice from school - savage, pink, and bright as a bell. I remember it sawed through walls. Now it’s blue smoke over ice. She uncrosses and re-crosses her legs. “So is _Auror_ Weasley planning to join us, or must we play ‘girl talk’ til dawn?”

“I expect he’ll turn up when he’s ready.”

“I expect I’ll talk a lot faster when he does.”

Simmons is losing ground. She counters, standing with her cup in hand, idly pacing the length of the table. “I’m not sure there’s any hurry. It doesn’t look good for you, Miss Parkinson. The inspection of your wand indicated recent use of several high-powered cleansing charms. This, with the, frankly, immaculate corpse on your back steps is… quite damning.”

Parkinson doesn’t even blink. “You’ve been through my playrooms, seen all my toys. My visitors would be appalled by slatternly habits.”

Simmons tilts her head in agreement. “Yes. I suppose that’s true.” She lights in the corner and takes a sip of her tea. “Besides proper sanitation, how does one excel in your business? You seem to do very well.” Insincere flattery. Bad move. Parkinson raises an eyebrow, and Simmons is finished. She might as well run for the door.

“Look,” Parkinson folds her arms, jostling her breasts and the jewel on her dress upward, “You _are_ lovely, and as much as I’d like to get together some time to practice that binding charm from earlier, I’m done talking to you. Now, run along like a good girl and fetch Auror Weasley.”

“He’s busy,” Simmons lies, “and you’d be wise to talk to me while I’m still listening. When Weasley comes, it will probably be to arrest you and escort you to a holding cell. Talk to me now, and your version of events might carry more weight at trial.” This is where most people offer up something, but Parkinson only stares, unbothered. Simmons stares back, but it’s too late. Now, she’s neither foe nor friend. She’s just a goldfish, floating in the corner. I wait to see which will blink first, holding out hope, then curse when it’s Simmons and tap twice on the wall.

She glances at me apologetically as we pass in the hallway. I take a deep breath, grimace at the burnt smell still hanging in the back of my nose, and fling open the door.

“Finally,” Parkinson unfolds her arms. “I was beginning to believe you were a figment of my imagination.”

“No, Parkinson.” I stretch myself tall and stride into the room. “Flesh and blood.”

“Mmm.” She smiles with one corner of her mouth. “Indeed.”

“So, you want to talk to me.” I flop the file down onto the table then sit. “Let’s talk. At 12:23 this morning, we received a call from a concerned neighbour about a strange sighting ‘round back of your place.” I push a picture towards her, the image so still it could be a Muggle photograph. “Do you know this man?’

Her nose wrinkles. She swallows hard and looks back up to my face. "That... that's Phineas.”

“Yeah, that’s Phineas. You can identify him without his nose, then. That’s good. I take it he was one of your ‘visitors’?”

“Yes.”

“And had he ‘visited’ you, lately?” I lay my finger against the photo, but Parkinson doesn’t look down. She fixes her eyes on me. She breathes and shifts. The chair creaks beneath her.

“Yes,” she says. “This evening. His standing appointment. Tuesdays, from 5:00 to 6:30.”

“Right. So that makes you the last person to see him alive.”

She blinks, shrugs.

“Cat got your tongue, Parkinson? I thought you wanted to talk?"

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. He was very much alive when I saw him, yes.” She leans toward the table, touches the picture with two fingers. “Do I have a motive for this murder?”

“There are a few theories being bandied about.” I stand and push my chair out of the way. “Most of ‘em are rubbish, though. Mad stuff, like you’ve taken up where your father left off, or you’re trying to extract some sort of revenge for Malfoy, or,“ I laugh, ”maybe some mix of the two. But, from what I’ve seen, murder is usually far simpler. It’s usually about money, or jealousy, or shutting someone up. But you, you hurt people for a living, _Madame_.” I nod to Burge’s photo in front of her. “Accidents happen. Maybe you just got caught up in the moment. Maybe you looked down at Burge licking jam off your boot, saw how easy it’d be to crush him, and went a tick too far.”

A little put-on pout, and her brows draw together. “Now I’m insulted.” She leans back soundlessly in the chair, her gaze following me as I shuffle slowly around the table. “I’m a professional, remember? I get paid to push you to the edge and then bring you back safe. One’s no good without the other.”

Blue-grey eyes. A burst of yellow-green around the pupils. I walk behind her, just outside her peripheral vision.

“And yet Burge is curled up in the morgue as we speak. What about that?”

“What about it?” She presses the picture of Burge’s destroyed face back across the table, then peers at me over her shoulder. “Look, every Tuesday, Phineas Burge paid me one hundred galleons to zip a leather mask over his head and shove rubber tubes up his nose. For all that, he still seemed to rather like having his face intact. Blasting a hole in him, then setting him out to air in the garden would be incredibly bad for business, don’t you think? Besides,” she pauses for a moment, faces forward and says, “I believe I have an alibi.”

“An alibi?” I narrow my eyes. “You couldn’t have said so before?”

“Confidentiality.” She smiles again. That old wicked smile. “And I wanted to get you alone.”

I laugh a big, fake laugh.“You are too fucking much, Parkinson. Christ, this is a proper line of work for you, innit? Torturing sickos who get off on your cruelty. Is this what you Slytherin’s got up to? Paddles and chains? Is that why you were always such a bitch? A bit of role-play, carried over?”

I stop pacing and rest one hand on her chair. I can taste my stomach digesting itself on the back of my tongue, and, to be honest, it’s starting to make me a bit cranky.

“Stop fannying about, Parkinson, and give us a name.”

“I can’t.” She bites her lip. “I can’t. But, I’m sure they’ll turn up on their own.”

I want to throttle her. I want to wrap my hands around her pale, white throat and squeeze.

“Why?” I bend over and hiss into her ear. “Why would any of the freaks you beat into submission ever show up here to save your arse?”

She closes her eyes. “Because some people can’t help themselves.”

“And some people would let us have you on a silver platter. You best hope you don’t reap what you’ve sown, yeah?”

My hand is on her shoulder and our faces are too close, and I’m momentarily hypnotised by the rush of blood to her lips, by the scent rising off her neck in leather-edged waves.

Now I’ve made it personal, I push myself away from her and move to stand in the corner. The whole room feels twenty degrees hotter, and I need some fresh air. I need to catch my breath, to untangle my brain from my cock and refocus on what I’m doing here, but Parkinson’s voice gets in the way.

“That was a long time ago. I’m sure Potter’s over it by now.”

“You think so?” I can see the edge of her lips from here. The quick flick of her lashes.

“You were always the one to bear a grudge, Weasley. Always the hot–head.” Her voice is cool, smooth. “I _do_ have an alibi. They _will_ come forward. You’ll see. I’m not what you think.”

I’m still trying to collect my head when I hear the knock at the door. Outside, Harry slouches against the wall, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his black coat. Of course someone’s called him out. Burge was Senior Undersecretary of the DMLE, so none but the very best for his murder investigation. Though Harry's hardly at his best, now. He has that middle-of-the-night look you only ever see in people over thirty - pink-rimmed, puffy eyes, the weary set of the mouth, shoulders sagging like the bones haven’t yet shifted back to working order.

I say, “You look like hell, mate.”

“Right. Thanks.” He quirks out half a grin , then looks toward the interrogation room door. “That Parkinson?” I nod and he runs his hand over his hair, front to back, back to front. “Let her go.”

“What? We don’t even have the full report from the morgue, yet!” This is mad. The entire Wizengamot will be clamouring for heads if we fuck up and let Burge’s murderer dash. “Harry…”

“She has an alibi, Ron. Iron clad. Simmons is finishing up with them, now. She’s not the one, mate. Time to reassess, and move on.” He says the last bit in his Head Auror voice. It digs a bit, and I remember exactly why I prefer the night shift. We stare at each other for a few seconds before I throw up my hands and turn back to the door.

An interrogation room shouldn’t smell this way. It should reek of cold stone, nervous sweat, and remorse. Instead, it’s a fog of Parkinson, a haze of high-rent bordello: velvet pillows and bushels of flowers and scattered furs and brown leather burnished slick by soft, warm hands. And it’s getting to me, yeah, it is, so I stand with my back to the door, holding it open so she can pass. I tell her she’s free to go, that she can retrieve her wand from Holding with the ticket in my hand, and that their door is the last on the left at the end of the hall. And I can hardly believe it, but she actually has the decency not to look entirely self-satisfied as she gathers her cloak from the table. She slinks across the room, high heels clopping slowly, then stops in the doorway to take the number from my hand.

“Nice chat, Weasley.” She pauses and takes a breath, but then she must think better of whatever she was going to say because she just smiles and walks away.

Madness.

I collect the picture and rearrange her file. I push the chairs under the table and extinguish the lights, then pull the door closed behind me and step out into the hall.

Two doors down, Hermione follows Simmons out of Interrogation Room 2. And I’m thinking she must have been the one sent from the DMLE, but then I notice Harry standing off to the side, waiting, and though that isn’t exactly odd, the grim, awkward look mirrored between their faces is damn strange. Simmons scurries off ahead, leaving them alone, and when he reaches over and wraps one finger around hers right here in public, it all suddenly clunks into place.

A thousand lurid flashes. Endless scenarios half-form then tear away. My ears feel on fire and my knees aren’t quite as they should be, so I stand shaking in place and watch as they walk down the hall side by side. They reach the end and he opens the door and then follows her through just as Parkinson comes clopping up behind me.

“They always come together,” she says. The door clicks shut, and she touches my hand. “Take that how you will.” She follows along after them, and I can’t help but think that extra roll of her arse is a bit of a free show, just for me.

Madness.

Bloody bollocksing madness, all of it.

I need a safe place and a shot of simple sugar. It’s nearly 3:00 a.m. and what would be my lunch is still sitting on my desk. It’s the only sane thing I’ve left to cling to, so I turn and make my way toward the Auror offices. Back and back to the very corner cubicle with my clutter, and my Cannons pennant, and my photos of my completely normal and asexual friends, Harry and Hermione. The sandwich is still tucked snug inside its wax paper but my apple, a beautiful Nutmeg Pippin, has disappeared. I find it in the centre of the seat of my chair, Parkinson’s jewelled pin sunk deep in the flesh, holding a scrap of parchment against the rosiest part of the skin. A scribbled address, and a tiny, crisp ‘P’ in deep purple ink.

……….

During routine questioning the next morning, Caudlepot spots Burge’s wand in a collection of wooden knitting needles in a vase on the mantle of the Widow Burge’s fireplace. She confesses to killing her husband in a good, old-fashioned fit of jealous rage and then ‘Apparating him straight over to that whore’s house, since he liked her so much’. She bursts into frantic tears while Simmons prepares her for transport, and I think _this_ is a thing I can completely understand.

Three fingers of Ogden’s, and everything is still far more in-focus than I’d like it to be. I wave at Claudius for another. He winks at me and nods as he pours, acknowledging my mood as he half-fills my glass before drifting away to the more social clientele. I drink in silence and watch the youngsters in the booth at my ten o’clock. They sit together, squashed into the same side, arms interwoven, hands held under the table. Her legs are a bit short , so she’s slipped off her flat and wedged her foot around his ankle. They manoeuvre their drinks with their free hands, barely taking their eyes off each other, and surely, this is true love. Sweetness and cuddles and soft kisses to the forehead. I had it once with Hermione, but then I got bored. I left, and once I’d realised I rather liked that boring stuff, she’d already taken up with Terry Boot, and then… then Harry.

The youngsters have shifted. His arm is around her shoulders and her hand is on his thigh. Her toes stroke the fabric of his trousers - up and down, up and down. And it’s hard for me to imagine these two making knots and swinging crops and burning each other with candle wax, but what do I know? I don’t know anything, anymore.

I throw the last of the Ogden’s back, grab a handful of coins and slap them to the bar. I don’t spare the youngsters a glance as I drift toward the door, because I’m drunk enough that I have to concentrate on making my feet move in the right direction. Out the door and into the alley, and I remember Parkinson’s pin was in my pocket and I hope I haven’t left it on the bar with the coins. I pat myself down, and I feel it, the tiny point jabbing my thigh. Because it’s not just a round jewel, it’s a ruby heart, multi-faceted and plump as a berry. The parchment I wadded round the tip of the long silver pin for protection, but now I unfold it and try to read what it says.

The light from my patronus bathes the alleyway. Trash bins and crates and the scurry of rats, and for a second little Jed is distracted and digging for his prey. I focus and he returns, panting at my feet, and I lean over, look into his silvery eyes and say, “You owe me an apple.” He leaps into the air and dissolves in the dark.

I’m looking for a place to unload my stomach when she takes my hand and Apparates us away.

……….

Pansy sets the teacup close so I don’t have to reach. I nod my thanks and breathe in the scent of her kitchen. Ginger and burnt sugar. I like this place a lot better than the first one I saw, and I tell her so.

“Yes. Well, it’s not supposed to feel like home, is it?” She sips her tea. Her hair is braided back, and she’s wearing a tight black jumper and a long, full white skirt. Three separate people. This woman, the one in the interrogation room, and the girl I used to know.

This woman, I feel like I can ask. I shake my head, slowly, very slowly, and I say, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why… why do people want ‘that’?”

“Why does anyone ever want anything?” She looks over my head, presses her lips together, then looks back down at me. “I think we’re marked. Certain things, certain people. Certain patterns recur again and again. Eventually, it all ties in to what’s happening in our pants.”

Again, I shake my head. “But…”

“But why them? Right?” I nod, and she goes on. “They’re the same people. They still fill whatever space you need them to fill in your life. Still Potter the Great and Saint Granger,” she says this in deep radio announcers voice, “stomping out evil and injustice wherever it may arise.” She takes a sip of tea.

“Still relentless. Until I help them… relent.”

I want to cover my ears, but settle for rubbing my eyes, instead. I don’t want to know. I don’t. I want to go back to the place where, yeah, they are a couple, but I never have to see it. When we’re all together, there is Harry and then there’s Hermione. They don’t touch or throw each other sappy looks. They don’t wrap themselves around each other as we’re leaving the pub at night. They are separate entities, entirely, because, for me, that’s the only way we can still all be friends.

And how fucked up is that?

I take a big gulp of tea, trying to scald the thoughts away, and I remember why I’m here.

“You wanted me to know.”

“You were going to find out, anyway. I was only trying to soften the blow.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s not. But it’s affected you, all the same. That small glimpse. Sometimes, that’s all it takes to throw everything out of sorts.” She pulls a cigarette from a case, and lights it with the tip of her wand. She takes a long drag and exhales then looks at me shrewdly. “Can I tell you a story?”

I blink. “Sure.”

“Sixth year, I was out on the grounds. I called it Prefect’s duty, but really I was looking for Draco. Spent a lot of time that year looking for Draco.” She takes a quick inhale, then goes on. “Anyway, I was searching under the Quidditch stands - that was a place we liked to go… Ah.” She smiles at me, that naughty, naughty smile. “I see your ears turning red. Do you remember?”

I haven’t thought of it in years, but, yeah, I remember.

“You and Lav-Lav, snogging passionately under the stands. Until she tickled you and….” She sounds like that mean, mocking kitten from Hogwarts, so I’d best play along.

“I accidentally pushed her down.” Oh, gods.

“Right. And then what happened?” Her voice has gone smoke and glass again and I don’t want to say it out loud. I’d rather hear her tell it.

“You tell me.”

She cocks a brow at my cheek. “Then, instead of helping her up, you dropped to your knees. You stretched out across her and held her hands over her head, and the two of you rutted against each other like animals,” She takes a drag, exhales, then haughtily spits out, “Brown moaned like a whore the whole time.”

I can’t help it. I laugh like a drunken fool.

“Point is, Weasley, you marked me. Seeing that, you were my go-to fantasy for a long, long time. You were good, and forbidden, and you hated me. I didn’t like myself very much, either. But once I got away from my father, got away from Draco, I found this line of work and everything fell into place.” She looks around the kitchen, takes a deep breath, and ashes her cigarette. She looks back to me and rests her chin in her hand. “I’m still a vicious bitch, just these days I don’t dish it up for free.”

“It’s good to have fulfilling work,“ I mumble.

“Oh, that jealous streak. I’d forgotten.” She sits back. She touches my fingertips with hers, feeling me out. “You know that it’s just a job, yes? You know I don’t sleep with anyone….” 

I’m not sure how we got here, but now that we are I reach out a bit further and push my fingers between hers.

“It’s like any job, really. Some days you just go through the motions. There are people you like and people you’re indifferent to. But I don’t bring it here, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She snuffs out her fag and my eyes travel the length of her arm to her breast to her neck to her mouth. “I don’t always want it in my bedroom. Sometimes…”

“Sometimes you want to be held down and rutted against like an animal.” What?

“Sometimes,” She nods decisively. Her eyes flash. “Yes.”

“What about sweetness and cuddles and soft kisses to the forehead?” Might as well go all in.

She looks down at our hands, and she blushes. Pansy Parkinson, _Madame Ava deCuir_ , blushes at me.

“That’s… Yes, please. Yes.”

We sit quietly for a minute, then she licks her lips and gives my knuckles a little press.

“I can tell you something that might make you feel better. I don’t think your friends will be coming to me much longer. See, they’ve got their own game, now…”

“No. No. No more.” I hold my hands up, squeeze my eyes closed.

She rounds the table and settles on my knee. “Haven’t you ever asked Hermione about that key ‘round her neck. Quite the story, there.” She runs her fingers down my throat, massaging the place where the collar bones meet. It takes my breath, but in the best way.

“Torturess…”

“Mmmm,” she purrs. “The best in the biz…”

.FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2014 TL Valentines Day Prompfest. The prompts were apples, snuggling, an unexpected reaction to something, and drunk patronusing.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
